


Christmas Cards 2004 (Excerpts)

by kuzibah



Series: After [2]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Animal Death, Christmas, Dogs, Domestic, Drinking, Drunkenness, Face Punching, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 06:24:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20523416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuzibah/pseuds/kuzibah
Summary: I did a series of Christmas stories every year for the Buffy fandom. This is selections from my 2004 stories that works into the continuity of the "After" series.





	1. Spike: A Ha’Penny Will Do

**Dec. 18th, 2004 – 5:10 p.m.**

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Spike walked from the dining room to the living room, down the hall and back, telling himself he *wasn’t* pacing, there just wasn’t anything to do alone in this big, old house when you were waiting for the sun to go down. It was the second time Angel had left him overnight since they’d moved in, and Spike was trying to be an adult about it.

The first time had been three weeks before and Spike had asked the questions a child asks: Where are you going? When will you be back? Why can’t I go with you?

Angel had answered like any patient parent: I have business out of town. I’ll be back tomorrow. I don’t want to spoil the surprise, just watch your movies or go out if you want. I’ll be back before you know it.

But Spike found himself so depressed with Angel gone he could do little more than lie in their bed and miss him, and wonder when he would be back.

Angel returned late the next night, and Spike ran to meet him on the porch. He wore such a smug “I’ve-got-a-secret” expression that Spike didn’t know whether to kiss him or hit him, so he did one, open-mouthed and filled with want, followed by the other, so hard that Angel was knocked down the stairs. Spike then ran into the house to hide and sulk for an hour while Angel searched, alternately threatening and apologizing until Spike came out.

Spike was determined, this time, not to let himself get worked up, so as soon as the sun went down, he walked into town, bought a packet of cigarettes at the drugstore, and continued on to The Molly Maguires’ Pub. It was still too early for the dinner crowd to arrive, and only the one waitress and the bartender were there, watching “Judge Judy” on TV. Spike took a seat at the bar and ordered a black-and-tan.

“Where’s Liam tonight?” asked the waitress, a thirty-something single mom called Stacy. 

“Out of town,” Spike grunted. “Business.”

Stacy and the bartender, Ron, nodded and went back to rolling sets of silverware in napkins for that evening. “Did you hear about what Butch found up on the mountain this past weekend?” Stacy asked conversationally after a few minutes.

“No, was he up there hunting?” Ron answered.

Stacy nodded again. “Bear,” she said. “But anyway, he said he found a doe up there with her stomach torn open and her throat ripped apart. Said the dogs went crazy around it.”

Spike suppressed a grin, taking a swallow of his drink, instead. 

“Jesus,” Ron said. “What’d he think did it?”

“Thought it might be a mountain lion.”

“We haven’t had one of them around here in about thirty years,” Ron said dismissively. “Is he sure it wasn’t somebody’s dog?”

“You know any local dogs that could take down a full-grown doe?” Stacy chided. “Maybe Tucker’s lab, but he’s afraid of his own shadow.”

“Might be coyotes,” Spike suggested, and the other two turned their attention to him. “We had them out west. They’d kill house-pets when they could. They’ve been saying for years that they’re migrating east. I’ll bet a pack of them could take down a deer.” This last part was pure bullshit, but Spike said it as though he were a world authority on the hunting patterns of coyotes and the two humans nodded in unison again.

Two hours and three beers later, Molly Maguires’ was fairly crowded, for a weeknight anyway, and the regulars had come to the consensus that a pack of coyotes up in the woods was savaging the local deer population. Not that the herds couldn’t use thinning, the long-time residents agreed, not with the newcomers putting out feed to get them through the winter. When Spike finally made his way out to walk home, several people warned him to be careful.

He started laughing as he hit the sidewalk.

Snow had started to fall while he was inside, and he hadn’t gone two blocks before his eyelashes and hair were covered with flakes, so he climbed onto the porch of the Wonderland Café to pull his wool scarf out of his pocket. Behind him someone tapped on the window, and he turned to see Desiree, the owner’s daughter, beckoning him in.

The Café’s rush was over for the night, and there was only one couple in the small dining room sipping lattes and sharing a Key-lime tart. “Sit over by the fireplace, Will,” Desiree said. “You’re covered with snow. How long were you walking around out there?”

Spike deflected the question, knowing full well it was only his lack of body heat that made the snow stick to him like a common street-post. Desiree set a steamed hot chocolate on his table.

“Were you looking for something for Liam?” she asked.

“For what?” Spike said, blowing across the surface of his drink.

“Christmas, duh!” 

Spike suddenly noticed the twinkling lights and greenery that adorned the Café and he felt a sharp stab of panic. Since leaving L.A. he’d lost all track of the passage of time. He tried to figure from the day they’d arrived in town, on Halloween weekend, realized how much had happened since then. “What’s the date?” he asked, his throat dry.

“December eighteenth, Rip Van Winkle,” Desiree replied, laughing, and Spike let his head fall forward onto the table. 

“Shit,” he muttered. 

On the one hand, it explained Angel’s “business,” knowing how much Spike (normally) looked forward to the holiday, he was probably plotting something massive. But now, Spike was completely blindsided. Having lost track of the days, he now had to come up with something incredible for Angel, with only a week to do it. There was no way, and he’d feel like a selfish jerk.

Desiree patted his shoulder. “You okay, Will?” she asked, and Spike groaned and nodded, then sat back up to finish his chocolate.

“Sorry I can’t stay,” he told Desiree, wrapping his scarf around his face. “I’ll bring Liam back tomorrow or the next day.” 

“Careful walking home,” Desiree answered. “Someone said they saw a coyote up on the mountain two days ago.”

\- - - - -

Spike walked slowly through the rooms of the house, *their* house, his and Angel’s. They had shared dwellings before, many times, everything from a mansion in London where the servants had all mysteriously died of a “Fever” while the family was away on holiday, to a coffin-sized hollow under an outcropping of stone when they’d been pursued onto a desolate heath close to dawn. But never had there been this ownership, this feeling of belonging to a place and it belonging to you. He liked it.

He liked that they had chosen the wallpaper for patterns that pleased their eyes, carpeting in colors and textures they liked. The draperies on the windows weren’t just good enough, they kept out the sun completely. The light was pitched for creatures who could see in the dark, the temperature was proper level for those who were cold-blooded. And their furniture was properly made by long-dead craftsmen who actually cared if it still served a hundred years on, something neither had seen in far too long.

Spike threw himself onto the bed. *Their* bed, he thought, and surrendered briefly to the goofy smile that rose up inside him. After a moment, though, the reality of the situation made him pull a pillow over his face. He took a deep breath and tried to think.

It should be something for the house, he decided. That should have been obvious, and he cursed his own thickness for not having figured it out immediately and saving time. 

There wasn’t time to re-do a room, even if they hadn’t already designed everything down to the square inch, already. Anyway, Rebecca would kill them if they changed anything now; she had already custom-ordered window treatments, slipcovers, and handmade wall-coverings to finish off the kitchen, bath, and two bedrooms still wanting.

Furniture? Possibly, but so far they’d acquired by knowing the perfect thing when they saw it. It was uncanny. They’d walk into a shop and there would be a chair, or an end table, and they’d look at each other and one would say, “that would go perfectly…” and the other would say he’d just thought the same thing. Only the bed had been Spike’s find alone, and he kind of liked it that way. He didn’t want any part of the house to be more his or Angel’s, and this way it wasn’t. So furniture was out.

Some art or a decorative piece was a possibility. Angel liked art, and they lived in a town with a number of galleries. It was, unfortunately, too late to commission a piece, but some of the local artists did unusual, striking work that would fit the house.

Spike rolled over, dissatisfied and angry with himself again for having forgotten the holiday. He glanced at the clock. It was nearly two, and Angel should be back soon. Spike rose and laid a fire in their bedroom fireplace. Another pleasure of this new life they had – firewood brought to them by the brothers Angel had hired to tend to their “grounds.” It was hard, old wood, probably salvaged from trees downed naturally in the surrounding woods. Spike lit it, and yellow flames licked over the logs. The fire would burn long, and hot.

Angel did return home shortly after, entering the house and calling out Spike’s name nervously. “I’m here,” Spike called back, and he heard the big guy charging up the stairs.

Angel found Spike before the fireplace, pouring wine into glasses for them both. Angel shrugged out of his jacket and crossed to the hearth, knelt down beside his offspring. “So you aren’t angry at me?” Angel said, and Spike glared at him. 

“I wouldn’t say that,” Spike said curtly, then lowered his eyes and passed a glass of wine to Angel. “But I think I could be persuaded to forgive you.”

Angel dipped the tip of his index finger into the wine and touched it to Spike’s lips. “Forgive me,” Angel said sincerely.

Spike took Angel’s finger into his mouth, tasted the sour wine. “I’ll think about it,” he murmured, but he looked up at Angel through his lashes, and smiled.


	2. Angel: Wouldn’t Miss This One This Year

**Dec. 19th, 2004 – 2:13 p.m.**

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Angel gazed down fondly at Spike as he slept, and imagined the younger vampire’s excitement when he saw the surprise Angel had for him. It would make these days apart worth it, or at least forgotten. Strange, he had never cared for Christmas before. The ritual and celebration that had grown up around it, especially in the last century and a half, seemed so foreign to him, an orgy of forced gaiety and social obligation that was not anything like the church he remembered nor particularly appealing in its own right. Yet for his two youngest offspring, Drusilla and Spike, it was the high point of their year. They anticipated it for months, spent weeks on gifts and parties and decorations. Of course, they were Victorians, and for all intents and purposes their era had created the modern Christmas, but that didn’t help Angelus or Darla understand it any better. For them, it was something merely to be endured, an indulgence for the younger ones.

Of course, such indulgence had its own rewards. Spike could be counted on, at least from early December, to be on his very best behavior, and to be helpful in many ways. Life in their little family seemed especially close and sedate during that last month of the year, and even now Angel remembered some of those moments warmly.

He expected Spike did, too, and he anticipated what he had planned now that they had settled down, free at last of their struggles. 

In the fireplace, a log popped, and Spike stirred, rolled onto his side, and blinked up at Angel. “What time is it?” he said.

Angel glanced at the clock. “Two-fifteen,” he said.

Spike arched his back and yawned. “We need to go out,” he said, climbing from the bed.

“What for?”

Spike gave Angel a withering look. “We need to get a tree,” he said. “And lights. And decorations. Christmas *is* less than a week away.” He added this last part as though it were something he’d expected Angel to have forgotten.

Angel sank down into the bed again. The warm, fond feeling were beginning to slip away.

\- - - - -

The snow that had started the previous evening had continued all night and most of the day. The clouds had cleared, and when the sun dropped down behind the mountain just after three-thirty the temperature plummeted, as well. The two vampires drank hot tea to fortify themselves and at least try to raise their body temperatures before bundling into long coats, mufflers, and gloves, and trudging through the knee-deep snow to the fire house, where a truck-load of evergreen trees had been delivered the previous Sunday. Strings of bare, white light bulbs criss-crossed the lot.

“What do you think,” Spike said conversationally. “Spruce or fir?”

Angel rolled his eyes and stamped the snow off his boots. “I don’t much care, so long as it’s fast,” he said.

Spike mock-pouted and waved over one of the firemen conducting the sale, then walked between the rows discussing the relative merits of this tree or that while Angel trailed behind, certain that he was slowly freezing solid. At last Spike handed the man two one-hundred dollar bills, pointed around the lot giving instructions, and shook the man’s hand. He came back to where Angel was waiting.

“All done love,” he said into Angel’s ear. “Go on home now, and they’ll be along to set up in a bit. Tell them to put it in the front bay window.”

Angel frowned. “Where are you going?”

Spike looked surprised. “I’ve things to get,” He said. “Lights. Decorations. I won’t be long.” Angel wondered why he’d been dragged out in the first place, but accepted a quick kiss and trudged back up the hill and home. 

He had just changed out of his wet clothes and begun to lay a fire in the living room when two firemen arrived with the tree. Angel directed them to the bay and they erected a nearly eight-foot-tall white spruce in a red and green stand. They also hung a wreath on the door and sprays of greens around the porch railing. Angel thanked them, and tipped them, though he was certain Spike had already been overly generous in that department, and they left Angel with a packet of green powder to mix into the tree’s water to extend its longevity. 

Angel left the packet on the mantelpiece, lit the fire, and poured himself a whiskey. A big one.

\- - - - -

Spike came home a little more than an hour later.

“That was fast,” Angel said, then noticed that Spike carried no bags. “Where are the decorations?”

Spike gave him the look that Angel had come to expect at least once a day, the look that said Spike clearly wondered if his old Sire had finally gone soft in the head. “Still at the stores,” Spike said slowly. “I just stopped at a couple of places to open accounts for Rebecca to pick up what she needs. She’s the decorator. She can handle it.”

Angel sighed with relief. “Oh, thank God,” he said.

Spike walked right past him and stripped out of his wet clothes right on the hearth. Angel stepped up behind him and wrapped his large hands around Spike’s slim waist.

“I need to make one more trip,” Angel confessed, and Spike pulled away, every muscle tense.

“I need to get changed,” Spike said, not looking at Angel. He ran up the stairs two at a time.

Angel let him have twenty minutes before going up himself. He found Spike in what he thought of as “Spike’s room,” a den filled with overstuffed chairs and lots of big throw pillows. There was also a sixty-inch flatscreen TV with surround sound, a satellite hook-up with Tivo, and a Playstation 2. When Angel entered, Spike was deeply involved with cutting animated ninjas into bloody chunks.

“I’m sorry,” Angel said. “But when you see why, you’ll understand.”

“I understand now,” Spike said. “I’m not six. Doesn’t mean I’m happy about it. I’m insecure. I know it. And I piss myself off when I am.”

Angel frowned. “So you’re mad at… you?”

“Duh,” Spike exclaimed, and another ninja was slashed apart.

Angel sank onto the couch beside Spike. “You’re very confusing to me,” he said.

“Yeah, like I understand myself,” Spike said, and he passed Angel a game controller. “Just don’t worry about it,” he said. “In a week, this will all be done.”

Angel pressed the circle button, then the “X,” activating the second player. He only had to endure this a week, he thought, before he started slashing ninjas himself.

\- - - - -

Thanks to Spike, and his sudden compulsion to have a tree, wreath, and stockings, plus his idea that they should send gifts to the estranged Buffy and her friends, the next few days were a whirlwind of activity. Rebecca and her brother and father decked the tree out in high Victorian style. She also drove Spike to the outlet shops about 30 miles away to select designer clothes for Buffy, Willow, and Dawn, fancy electronics for Xander, and gourmet sweets for them all. 

Spike also spent time on-line finding first-edition volumes for Giles, and assembled the whole lot into a wooden crate for shipment to the Giles estate in Bath.

In the meantime, it continued to snow, and the weather stayed under 20 degrees. For Spike and Angel, the hunting was made all the easier, with the waxing moon reflecting off the smooth, white blanket. Their kills, too, were quickly concealed beneath the drifts.

Scott and Darren, the brothers who tended their yard, kept the woodpile on their porch well-stocked, so they kept a fire going whenever they were home. During the day, the bedroom was as warm as an August afternoon, and Spike and Angel were loathe to leave it.

Thursday night, the night before Christmas Eve, Angel rose just at sunset and began to pack an overnight bag. Spike, still heavy from sleep, watched through half-opened eyes.

“Take me with you,” he said quietly, half-question and half-command, and Angel wavered, almost lifted Spike from the bed to join him, but it seemed a shame to spoil it now, when it was so close.

“One more day,” Angel said, hoping Spike heard the plea behind it.

There was a long silence, then, “go on, then,” from Spike. “Come back all the sooner.”

\- - - - -

The snow had stopped, for now, though Angel knew it was on its way again. The brothers had shoveled the steps and sidewalks clean, and it was piled up in dirty clumps alongside. They’d also cleared Angel’s car, a serviceable but nondescript jeep, and it stood waiting at the curb. He stepped into the street, opened the driver’s door and threw his bag into the back.

He looked back up at the house. Spike stood at the long windows at the end of the second-story hall, looking down at the street. He had pulled one of the blankets off the bed and wrapped himself in it, so he looked like a caped warrior, or an ancient god.

Angel raised one hand and waved to him, but Spike stayed still. Angel got into the car, drove away before he changed his mind again.

\- - - - -

Angel spent Christmas Eve day in a hotel. He watched cable TV, flipping through the thirty-odd channels like a reflex, old movie to infomercial to cartoon to sit-com, round and round. He tried to read, tried to sleep. Called Connor in the early afternoon to wish him a Merry Christmas and check on their New Year’s plans.

In the same minute the sun went completely down, he stepped into the parking lot, trying not to run. He drove exactly seven-and-a-half mph over the speed limit to his final destination sixteen miles away, and walked through the front door at 4:47 p.m.

It was a mechanical shop, a large, open structure like a warehouse. The previous times Angel had visited, it had always been busy and brightly lit, but now the interior was dim, all work put away until after the holidays. Only the office was still alight, and Angel could see Mike, one of the owner’s sons, finishing up his last few tasks of the year.

“Hey, Mike,” Angel called, not wanting to startle him, and the young man looked up.

“Liam,” he exclaimed in relief. “I was afraid you wouldn’t make it.”

“I had to make it,” Angel said.

Mike grinned. “We’d have stayed open anyway,” he said. “You can’t do a job like this and not finish it in style.”

Angel grinned back. “Where is it?”

Mike came from behind the desk. “Let me call Paul, Jr.,” he said.


	3. Spike: My True Love Gave to Me

**Dec. 24th, 2004 – 9:40 a.m.**

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Christmas Eve dawned just above freezing, but overcast, the threat of even more weather hanging heavy over the mountains, and a thick fog rising from the layer of snow that had fallen during the previous week. The morning also found Spike stretched on the carpet near the living-room hearth, half-dressed and with a hangover that would have killed someone alive.

Angel had left the night before to conclude his mysterious “business,” which was obviously some surprise gift for Spike. Spike was trying to be understanding and grateful, but in truth he missed Angel so much it made him question his own strength of mind. Directing his anger at Angel hadn’t helped. Nor had trying to be a mature adult. So this time, he had merely started drinking as soon as Angel pulled away from the curb. When the lights on the Christmas tree started to go fuzzy, he slowed down a little, but he didn’t actually stop until his fingers were too numb to grip the bottle. He didn’t remember much after that.

The fire he’d built had gone out, and thought their thermostat was set at 72 degrees, the age and size of the house made some parts cooler than others. The floor near an outside wall and fireplace, for instance, tended to be a bit chilly, and Spike, shirtless and barefoot, was stiff with cold. He groaned as he struggled up and into a wing chair.

There was a throw over the back, and Spike pulled it down around his shoulders and shivered for several minutes before he warmed up enough to race for the cocoon-like heat of their bedroom.

Once there, his head started to clear, and he mentally assessed the gifts he’d gotten for Angel. There was a cashmere sweater, soft as eiderdown, in the dark gray Angel favored. He’d gotten a couple of old movies he thought Angel might like, war epics and romances that he’d mentioned. He’d found a painting in one of the galleries of emerald-green hills. I reminded Spike of Ireland, and hoped it would do the same for Angel.

There were a few books, too, and odds and ends that had caught his eye, but overall Spike was unsatisfied with the gifts. The trouble was, they really wanted for nothing here, and anything that took their fancy they simply bought. Still, he felt he should have been able to think of something. 

He wandered into the bath and ran a tubful of steaming water, then climbed in and scrubbed off the last of his hangover. It was Christmas Eve day, and Angel had promised to be home by midnight.

Well, Spike thought, if I can’t find the perfect gift, I’ll give him the best of myself. It had been his usual behavior when he was newly made, and Angelus had always seemed pleased. Most likely it would please Angel now.

Spike finished his bath and set himself to tidying up the house. By the time the sun went down, everything had been put away, many for the first time since coming into the house, and Spike went back to the bath to tidy himself up again. He took his time, but even so, by 6:30 he was restlessly pacing the house again.

“Screw it,” he said, and stomped out of the house to see what was still open down Broadway.

It had rained off and on through the day, though the sky was clear now, and the temperature had climbed into the mid-forties. Not a heat wave, exactly, but enough to melt the layer of snow that had covered the sidewalk and streets, and create rivulets of water running in the gutters.

The town had reached the culmination of its Christmas season, and being reliant on the tourist trade, it had been done up in spectacular style. The Victorian mansions and townhouses that lined the main streets were outlined in lights – some white, some multi-colored – so they now resembled fancy gingerbread houses spangled with icing and candy. Swags of greenery graced each windowsill and railing, Each front window framed a tree and each door held an elegant wreath.

The community playhouse was hosting a party and carol sing for its membership and Spike sat on the front steps listening to the chorus of voices within for awhile, rising only when he saw Desiree locking the Wonderland Café across the street.

“Hey, beautiful,” he called as he crossed to meet her, and she turned and waved. 

“Hi, Will. Merry Christmas,” she said. “Left Liam at home?”

Spike made a sour face. “No. Out of town on business.”

Desiree gave him a look of profound sympathy. “Oh, no! When’s he coming back?”

Spike was oddly cheered by her dismay on his behalf. “Tonight,” he said. “Not too late.”

“That’s good,” she said. “What’re you up to now?”

“Just out walking. What about you?”

She held up her backpack. “Taking twelve dozen cookies over to St. Teresa’s Christmas Eve service for my mom. Wanna come?”

Spike hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said. “Me and churches…” He waggled his hand uncertainly.

Desiree rolled her eyes. “Yeah, like I’m joining the choir anytime soon. And I didn’t say go to church. I’m just dropping the cookies in the basement, then walking around to look at the lights and stuff.”

Spike grinned. “Okay,” he said.

They walked to the bottom of Broadway, turned left on Bridge, and walked two blocks to St. Teresa’s. Desiree ran inside while Spike stood in the cellarway and smoked. Then they walked up the hill to admire the historic mansions of the coal families, extravagantly decorated by the historical society. After, they climbed Mountain View Road, past the cemetery and the Church of the Ascension, then crossed Pine back to Broadway. They were above Spike and Angel’s house, now, so they started carefully down the steep sidewalk. 

Just past the Old Jail, Spike suddenly stopped. 

“What is it?” Desiree asked as he began to inspect the mounds of snow piled beside the road. Spike didn’t reply until he’d found a dark stain on one mound.

“Blood,” he said. “Recent.”

Desiree regarded the stain dubiously. Under the orange light of the mercury-vapor lamps, it looked black. “Are you sure?” she said. “It could be anything.”

“I’m sure,” Spike said, and he looked in the street and on the other side of the sidewalk. “Some animal was hit by a car, here,” he said, pointing. “Then it came across here, and under this fence. He peered into the wooded darkness beyond the chain-link barrier. “What’s down there?”

Desiree came up behind him. “The entrance to the culvert,” she said. “This town was built over a creek, so the culvert carries the water under the streets. A lot of the houses have doors to it in the basements.”

“How big is it?”

“Pretty big. Big enough for deer to wander into.”

Spike easily scaled the fence and dropped down onto the other side. “I’m going to see what it is.”

“Oh, Jesus, be careful,” Desiree cried. “It is pitch black down there. And it might be the coyotes.”

Spike was glad she couldn’t see his smirk and started down the steep embankment. He’d only gone a few steps before he hit a muddy clump of earth which gave under his foot. He slid eight feet down the incline into the half-frozen creek, went forward on his hands and knees into the icy mud. He swore loudly and elaborately, even unleashing some epithets that had been in retirement for a few years.

“Will? Will? Are you okay?” Desiree was calling down panicked.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Spike griped, climbing to his feet. In front of him he saw the looming mouth of the culvert, half covered with hanging branches. He could smell more blood within, the dark, bitter bile the body gave up with death. Whatever the car had hit had died in that culvert, but Spike, already wet and muddy, saw no reason not to satisfy his curiosity entirely and approached the entrance.

“Careful, Will,” Desiree called. 

“I’m okay,” he assured her, and ducking only slightly crept into the passage.

Inside, the creek ran smoothly over the floor of the culvert, making it quieter than outside. Spike allowed his demon aspect to present, letting him see more clearly in the near-total darkness, and he soon found what he was looking for.

It was dog, medium-sized, with short hair and brown-and-white spots. Her belly was half torn open, and her head lolled into the water. Her eyes, though, were still clear; she’d been dead less than an hour.

Around her, in the water, lay the bodies of four more dogs, much smaller. Puppies, really. They were cold, sodden lumps.

Spike shook his head sadly and exited, going back to his human face and rejoining Desiree.

“Was it a coyote?” she asked nervously.

Spike shook his head. “Just a dog,” he said, distracted while he looked over the road and sidewalk again. “She had some puppies,” he said, half explaining to Desiree and half talking it through for himself. “It looks like she took them down into the culvert when the creek froze up in the mountains. It would have been dry in there. Then, when it warmed up today, the water started running, and she’d have to get them out.” He pointed to some muddy, indistinct pawprints alongside the walk. “Then she was hit by the car, and only just managed to get down into the culvert before she expired. Then, when the creek rose, the pups couldn’t get out and drowned.”

He looked up into Desiree’s huge, liquid eyes. She was on the verge of tears. “All of them?” she asked in a tiny voice.

And Spike suddenly realized the dog could very well have made a number of trips to her new lair before being struck. He crossed the street, Desiree close behind, and searched the edge of the sidewalk until he found another line of muddy, indistinct pawprints.

“Here,” he declared, and began to follow them between two houses and through a backyard.

“Wow, good eyes,” Desiree noted, before following after.

The trail led through some bushes and into an opening under a wooden porch. Spike followed right after, finding himself in a dark, dusty enclosure that smelled faintly of dried bones and cat urine. Spike presented his vampiric aspect again and spotted a single puppy, wide-eyed and shivering in the corner. Spike approached the animal cautiously, his experience with dogs telling him that their usual reaction to vampires was either fear or attack, and not wishing to deal with either in the close space.

“Take it easy, pup,” he said in the most soothing voice he could manage, and to his shock and delight the little animal bounded forward and up into his arms. He juggled it between his hands while it tried to lick his face, and finally sat back on his heels and let it.

“Good boy,” he cooed, stroking the wiggling body. “Good boy…”

\- - - - -

Desiree had crowed with joy when he emerged again, followed by several cell phone calls on the short walk back to Spike’s house. Then a whirlwind of activity as various “dog people” stopped by with food, accessories, and advice. Spike had quickly given up any kind of argument against puppy ownership when it was determined by those in the know that they had already “bonded.” If Angel had objections, he figured, he could play the heavy.

The general consensus was that the puppy was a male, a mix of a few kinds of hunting dogs, most likely from the farms in the area, and older than six weeks (and thus weaned,) but still learning the ropes of dog-hood from its mother.

Desiree was the last to go, reluctant to leave the pup alone in the care of a novice, but Spike assured her they would both be fine, and he’d call in the morning with any questions. Then he was alone.

The dog had curled up in the middle of its bed, a large, round cushion, and was snuffling softly in its sleep. In the quiet, Spike suddenly realized what a mess he’d made of himself during the night. His clothes were soaked and stained with mud, and the care he’d taken with his hair was all for nothing. He looked at the clock; it was just past eleven-thirty.

Just enough time for a quick shower and fresh clothes, he thought, rushing up the stairs. He had just started to get undressed when he heard the puppy start to yap excitedly.

Shirtless and barefoot, but still in the ruined trousers he’d waded the creek in, he raced back downstairs and gathered the wriggling, barking animal in his arms. 

And that is how Angel found them a moment later when he came through the door.

\- - - - -

The first thing Angel did was stare, wondering why Spike was wearing pants soaked through with mud, had his hair standing out in all directions, and was holding a brown-and-white ball of fur that seemed to be trying to simultaneously escape and lick Spike’s hands.

The second thing Angel did was raise one hand to his mouth and smother a snort of laughter as he realized what exactly Spike was trying to do.

The third thing Angel did was sigh, drop his overnight bag , and walk to Spike. He put his hands on the wiggling puppy and stroked it softly. When it had quieted, he leaned down and gave Spike a kiss hello. 

“I can’t believe you got me a dog,” he said.

\- - - - -

Several thoughts fired through Spike’s mind in quick succession. First was, what does he mean, *his* dog? It’s *my* dog. Second was, I suppose we could always share the dog. Then, after a few seconds, he calmed down, looked at the pleased, dopey grin on Angel’s face, and realized he had, in fact, found the perfect gift after all.

“You came home early,” Spike said.

“I couldn’t wait to see you,” Angel replied, leaning past the puppy and kissing Spike again.

Spike handed the animal over, And Angel juggled it himself a second before it settled in his arms. “Now I am getting changed,” Spike said, heading up the stairs. “Why don’t you get a fire started?”

Angel set the dog in its bed and gave it a good looking-over. It had brown-and-white spots, floppy ears, and a tail that was flopping against the cushion. It was regarding Angel with a sort of excited awe, its mouth open and a small, pink tongue about to loll out. 

Angel shook his head, amused, and turned to lay the fire.

Spike returned downstairs about forty-five minutes later, clad in pajamas and a robe. He stretched out in front of the fire and Angel frowned.

“What?” Spike said testily.

“I wanted to give you your present,” Angel said.

“And..?”

Angel glanced towards the front door. “It’s in the carport,” he said.

With an exaggerated sigh of exasperation, Spike stomped back upstairs and came down a few minutes later in jeans and a sweater. “Better?” he asked.

Angel grinned. “Yes,” he said, scooping up the puppy and following Spike outside, down the steps, and around to the side of the house. 

There, on a trailer, was the most beautiful motorcycle Spike had ever seen. It was slung down low, with an exposed drive chain so dangerous-looking, Spike wondered if it hadn’t occasionally gnawed the foot off some hapless rider. The gas tank and all the chrome had been plated in copper, and as Spike looked more closely he noticed a copper-plated railroad spike mounted on the front column. 

“It’s amazing,” he whispered.

Angel smiled even more broadly. “I’m sorry we had to be apart,” he said. “But it was worth it, wasn’t it?”

Spike smirked. “I’ll let you know,” he said. “Where are the keys?”


End file.
